The tears running down her face were annoying. They were warm, wet, sliding down and dripping off the angles of her face. Her nose, her chin, the edge of her bottom lip, even the back of her jaw. They traveled slowly down the slender length of her neck. It felt awful against the heat of her face, and her neck, already hot from her uncontrolled sobbing. Whether that was from her fury or her sadness she didn't know.
It wasn't right, though. She was sure of that. His words were hateful. Worse than that. But even the intelligence that she was prided on couldn't find a fitting term. It would have to do.
He was hateful and she loved him.
Or had loved him, anyway. She was resolved now. This was the last time he would verbally attack her. Abuse her. He has figured he would always have her love. That it was infallible. He could say the worst; not hold back a damned thing, and she would take it. She always had.
She didn't believe in that "thin line between love and hate" crap that everyone always spouted. The line was thicker than even she wanted to believe. And the first time she realized she had to cross it she had been daunted by the distance. The jump across that flaming river would be a long one. An impossible one. But he didn't realize that every time his words, his poison, passed his lips, he helped her cross. He built the bridge for her out of his swears and lies.
Sure the handrails screamed foulness at her. With every step the boards creaked the words "slut" and "whore" at her. The water underneath egged her on. The words urged her to cross.
And she was. She was getting closer to the other side of that line all the time.
Ronald Weasley had no idea.